


(Première) Domme

by Liondragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Series: Domme [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Beads, Anal Sex, Bisexuality, Blindfolds, Bondage, Boot Worship, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Claiming One's Sexuality, Cock & Ball Torture, Coming Out, Discussion of Open Relationship, Enemas, Exhibitionism, F/M, Femme Domme, Food, Friendly Kissing, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Gags, Gun Kink, Identity Porn, Impact Play, Inanimate Objects, Leather Skirts, Male-Female Friendship, Men Crying, Mirror Sex, Objectification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painplay, Pegging, Penis In Vagina Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Roleplay, Situational Humiliation, Slut Shaming, Sub Steve Rogers, Teen Fantasy, Tucking Into Bed, Vibrators, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Liondragon
Summary: Steve Rogers isn't borrowing a cup of sugar from his neighbor Kate.Sharon Carter isn't having coffee with Captain America.Neighbors in a time of identity porn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The author stresses that this is not meant as a sex manual. Some details definitely do not fly in our universe; they do in the MCU. Some practices are unsafe even for supersoldiers. Suspend.  
> Despite the size, 'tis a sketched version of what would be a longer fic, almost like my days of casual porn-drops: a parachute for every crate of lube. This was mainly posted because: ~~it~~ the first part came out in one piece, some of y'all have a taste for something a wee bit stronger, and Sharon just doesn't get enough consideration. Tags. Lookit. _A.k.a._ don't expect stuff that's not in the tags _a.k.a._ don't @ me bro. It's possible I've forgotten tags, let me know please! (Just-in-case note: near the end, there's the tiniest of hot-button details... and it's 100% canon-derived.) Canon is not mine, this is not an endorsement of canon, enjoy the fiction.

By Sunday night, Steve had worked up a full head of steam. This in spite of the SHIELD meeting the next day. Or maybe because of it.

So he was in a state when he got to the top of the stairs, and saw his neighbor Kate. And he wasn't really thinking clearly when he tightened his fist over the plastic sack from the drugstore, and said, "Could I ask a word of advice?"

"Make your bed before you lie in it," she replied. At his blank look, she laughed. "You asked."

"You're a nurse," Steve fumbled on.

Smiling gamely, she said, "I can't write you a prescription, but I'll do my best, Captain."

With that, he opened the sack and showed her a selection of enemas.

Her amusement dropped away. "Are you okay?" she said, so incisively that Steve straightened.

"No. I mean, yes! Yes, it's..." His door was right there. He could bolt. He could jump out the window, too.

Steve Rogers was pretty sure he was about to get the wind knocked out of him.

*

Sharon watched Steve Rogers apologize for the impropriety of the whole situation, the lateness of the hour, and probably the transitive properties of the existence of his asshole. She'd gotten over the culture shock of being assigned to Captain America's protection detail a long time ago.

It was her job to assess the situation.

The surveillance in the hallway was audio-only.

She cut him off. "Do you know what these are?"

"Oh yeah!" he replied. "We had these... back then. I wanted to know if they operated the same way. Everything's got instructions, of course, but they always leave out—" He waved the handful of enemas around, then realized he was doing it, and clammed up again.

Sharon looked him up and down. There was no way he could look this up on his web browser without someone finding out and making a note of it.

And if he didn't have a medical complication, then this was... exactly what she thought it was.

She made a decision.

"They're the same as always, Steven," she said in a low voice. She didn't break eye-contact. "Don't push them up too far, and you'll be fine."

"I'm so sorry," Steve said again. "Ma'am."

He winced, remembering the present connotations of the word.

Sharon wasn't charmed, but she wasn't insulted either. She patted his arm. "I'll tell you what. I'm headed to a twelve-hour shift in a bit. I'll slide my spare key under your door, and you can use my guest bathroom as long as you clean up afterwards."

Steve's eyes were as round as saucers. "I really couldn't, Ma'am."

"Steven," she said, watching him, marking the quickness of his pulse, his dilated pupils. "I trust you. I think that you can."

This time, when Steve said _Yes, Ma'am_ , he meant it.

Problem solved. Sharon was pleased.

*

Steve at first felt like an interloper in her home. A lady's apartment. Except every time he went inside, he felt a transient atmosphere to the space, something that reminded him of the inside of USO girls' hotel rooms.

Though they had no contact, the guest bathroom was always thoughtfully laid out. There were fluffy towels on the floor; folded, ironed washcloths by the sink; and most every contraption had a little sticky note of instructions, from the air freshener to the laundry hampers. He felt as pampered as a guest in a fancy hotel.

But it wasn't impersonal. If anything, it felt very, very personal — despite their not seeing each other face-to-face for weeks.

He was careful to leave everything as he found it.

*

Sharon could tell a lot from a person's trash. She supposed most people would find that unsettling, but her life and her job and her whole world was far from 'settled.'

Steve had picked a favorite brand out of his initial grab-bag. He had found a lube, too, though she had some thoughts about his choice.

She'd encountered no resistance with the rest of the team (whoever they were) at letting their subject frequent an unmonitored apartment. The place was secure. Of course it was. She could do her job without compromising his privacy.

She could have let it lie.

The sticking point was that she had a vested interest in monitoring Rogers' mental health as well. Professionally. A little personally, too, since no one else at SHIELD seemed to give a crap about Steve Rogers adjusting to the impossible mindfuck he'd been tossed into.

Okay. She could do self-reflection.

She was taking it _a lot_ personally.

It was just that he followed instructions so well.

Escalating would be impulsive. Quite stupid.

So she didn't ... until he started leaving her apartment looking unsatisfied.

They couldn't have that.

*

Kate was waiting for him at the top of the landing.

Steve tried to school his expression. She seemed to catch it, because the side of her smirk took on an edge.

"Would you like to come inside and take a look at something, Steven?"

Steve swallowed hard. She was staring at him, steady, though not threatening.

"Sure, Ma'am."

"One minute," she assured him.

It sounded terribly familiar. _A moment_ , Peggy would've said. Whenever Monty said _Just a tick_ , she'd always wince.

Steve followed Kate into her apartment. He was brought back to the present immediately when she didn't close the door. She simply stood in her small entrance hallway, waiting for him to close it. Or not close it. It seemed to be Steve's choice.

Steve closed the door behind him.

She picked up a huge object which had been lying in plain sight on the half-table, next to some crockery. It wasn't a gun or a bomb or even a paperweight. Though it could've been used as a paperweight, Steve thought.

"This is Brad," she said, holding up the largest dildo Steve had seen in person.

How could she have known that his hands hadn't been enough, lately?

"Steven," she said sharply.

Steve felt himself come to attention. "Yes, Ma'am."

"I want to make it clear that I'm not attracted to you. If that changes, I'll let you know."

Steve wanted to sag with relief, and did not. "That's good. I mean, me too. I'm in the same boat." He added, "Ma'am."

He didn't know if he should be looking at her, or at the giant in her hands. She didn't seem to mind; she was looking right through to the back of his brain.

"Brad was my favorite. He's not, anymore. Tastes change." With her hip, she pushed open the guest bathroom door. "I'll leave him in that left-hand drawer. If he's there, you have permission to use him. Just wash up afterwards with soap and water."

Steve's tongue came unstuck. "Soap and water, really? Water out of the tap? Ma'am?"

"He's made of silicone, yes. It's impervious to pretty much any biological. Steven," she said, her lips quirking, "I'm guessing you don't like today's condoms."

"I haven't found a kind that I like yet, Ma'am."

"That's okay." For the first time, she moved her head: a slight tilt. "For future reference, I want to be clear that this is not best practices. I'm assuming your enhancements also include your immune system. You don't have to use one if you don't want to. When I use Brad, I'll use a prophylactic."

"Ma'am!" Steve burst out. "I couldn't presume to make you—"

"You're not making me do anything, Steven." She held his gaze for several seconds, as though gauging when that sunk in. "I'll choose when something's too much for me. The same goes for you. Do you understand, Steven? If you are unable to communicate that something's too much, then leave a towel here on this table. Otherwise, I expect to hear from you. Understand?"

"Okay, Ma'am," said Steve. He found himself nodding.

"Clear communication, Steven."

"Yes, Ma'am."

She sucked in her lips, as though with indecision. Then she said, "Good."

Steve's ears were ringing. He thought perhaps that his pulse rate had jumped.

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"Have a good evening, Captain," said Kate.

As Steve turned to leave, he heard her say, "And if something's not enough, you can let me know that, too."

*

Steve could barely fit the tip inside him.

There seemed to be twice the towels now, perfumed by a sprig of fresh lavender hanging on the inside of the linen closet. She left some hanging over the edge of the tub, and as he laid his brow upon them, he thought that she'd known he'd need something soft.

He kept fantasizing about her using the toy.

Shame suffused him every time, forcing hot, shaky breaths against the pillowy cotton. He wasn't picturing her. For an artist, he didn't visualize people too often... didn't, couldn't objectify their tangible existence. Where his memories used to be mottled monochrome, the serum had stamped them in vivid, indelible color, too loud to be intimate. Kate was a striking woman but she didn't strike him in that way.

But this was an object. Inside him. It had been inside her.

It had been her _favorite_.

Without using his hands, Steve bit out a moan into a towel.

She'd told him that on purpose. She wanted him to think of her... sliding...

The toy slipped inside another half inch, and with a muffled sob Steve came all over the clean, shiny tub.


	2. Chapter 2

Sharon performed the last of her weapons checks, radioed her team, and locked up. She had about two minutes; the clock was already running in her head.

The mission would probably be a routine one, but she was already wired.

She stared at Steve's door.

She knocked softly.

Six seconds later, Steve opened the door. He'd clearly been sleeping. Internally Sharon was already filing away his combat-zone jumpiness when she registered that he'd answered the door with shield in hand.

"Good morning, Steven."

Steve seemed just as rumpled as before, but his gaze sharpened. "Morning, Ma'am."

"I'll be home early today," said Sharon in an even voice. "I have paperwork. Mostly I'll be in my bedroom, and the living room." She knew he didn't venture any further into her apartment than the front hallway and the guest bathroom.

Steve's mouth worked. She waited. She had one minute.

Then that famous jawline smoothed. "Ma'am," he said in a voice scratchy with sleep, "May I use your guest bathroom while you're there?"

Sharon held the moment in place. Forty-five seconds. "You may. If you have problems keeping the noise down, let me know."

"Yes, Ma'am." His eyes darted to her door, and back again. "Thank you, Ma'am. Have a good day."

Thirty seconds.

She started down the stairs. She wasn't wired any longer. The mere fact that he still hadn't moved from his position at his door — like he had yet to be dismissed — filled her with a giddiness that was out of bounds.

She stopped, and turned around. "Steven? Making you ask for permission turns me on."

In the face of her rueful admission, all he did was grin. "I kinda figured that, Ma'am."

Okay. This would be okay. She returned a crooked smile, and turned to go.

*

Steve showed up twice a week. Kate always seemed to be there; she said her shifts had changed, and left it at that.

The door to the guest bathroom was fairly thick, but it was no match for his enhanced hearing. He could hear her puttering around in the apartment while he fucked himself in her extra bathtub.

The first time she opened the door, it took three minutes before he realized she was there. 'Good,' was all she said, when he looked up at her, and then she closed the door.

Steve would've been more suspicious of her motives if she didn't take care of him so diligently. She asked him questions. Then the next time there would be a pitcher of water, or a different bar of soap, or a pair of worn leather driving gloves.

Once he was asked if the floor was too cold. He wondered if she'd been ready to tear out the tile and install in-floor heating if he'd said yes.

She kept him on his toes, too. When he apologized for being too loud, she took a pear from her fruit bowl. "Any bad connotations with pears?" She tossed it.

"No, Ma'am," he said, bewildered.

She turned back to her screen like she expected him to figure it out.

In less than five minutes he was naked again, pear stuck in his mouth, like a pig at a roast, and he came so hard he bit right through it, rind and flesh and all. If it hadn't been exactly as ripe as it was, he'd have choked on it.

She did check on him, then. The rest of the pear rolling on the bathroom floor might as well have been an unexploded grenade.

He cleaned up on his hands and knees, sobbing messily.

She told him she was pleased.

Her motives seemed pretty damn clear to him.

The only time she was hesitant was when she suggested that he ejaculate freely. "Orgasm control might be fun, but... I don't know about your serum," she said, twirling the tips of her blond hair. "Surviving it isn't the point. This is... an educated hunch, I suppose. The physical effects might cancel out the mental rewards. Do you have any negative reactions to letting loose? Besides leaving a mess," she added, with a small smile.

"If you allow it, Ma'am," Steve said with a shrug. In a few seconds he would feel a wave of humiliation for speaking so casually about his bodily processes. By now he was used to her voice overriding the hitches in his thinking, steady but not cold, like a damp rag on a stifling hot day.

At this point, she sat forward. "I promise I will not collect, or allow anyone else to collect your genetic material."

Steve was stunned. It seemed to make her a little sad, then the expression passed. "Thank you."

"I should have said that earlier," she apologized. "I thought it went without saying. You should always feel safe; okay, Steven?"

Steve nodded. "May I bring my shield here?"

"Oh," she said with a laugh. She indicated the pantry, which was far enough from the guest bathroom for form's sake, and adjoining the central hallway for convenience. "I think we'll all feel safer. Be my guest."

The shield was like the one last piece slotting in.

In her narrow hall closet, he had a hanger for his coat and a space for his shoes.

He painted cum all over her walls while she wandered around in her pajamas, pouring cereal and making coffee.

It wasn't home. Or even homey, despite the domestic slant of the circumstances. It was like... going out to places again. Steve could try to fit in: go to clubs, hang out at coffee shops, find a gym outside of SHIELD. It had been easier in New York. And infinitely harder, without Bucky there with him. Now? If he felt like going out, he could step out to his neighbor's apartment and beat off till he cried.

Honestly, he'd heard of worse in Brooklyn, and he had it on good authority that it'd been about a hundred years ago.

   
   
   
So Steve wasn't that surprised when she laid out a spread of take-out dim sum, and slapped a pack of batteries on the table.

"I know you know Brad took those," she said. "Why?"

"You didn't say I could, Ma'am," Steve said before he could think too hard about it.

"Eat until you're thirsty," she said.

He did so.

She watched him.

Once he'd eaten his fill — he fought not to feel guilty for it, after all there were still two unopened bags of food on the far counter — she placed a pair of cuffs next to the batteries. They were leather, connected by a single metal link. They were probably exactly his size.

"There were reasons for not going there," she said. She was sucking on her bottom lip but it seemed like an affectation. Steve didn't think she was nervous.

Steve thought about it. "If I may, Ma'am? I wouldn't object to more contact between us."

"What kind of contact, Steven?"

Steve glanced down at her hands rubbing along the knees of her slacks. Like she couldn't wait to get her hands on him. "Whatever it is you've been itching to do since I showed up at your doorstep, Ma'am."

She crossed her arms. Her expression was neutral.

Then she poured water into his empty glass.

"We'll have to be quiet. It's a pity the walls are thin." She waited until he drank it down before placing another few objects on the table. "These are gags. We'll have to find one that stops you from hurting yourself when you grind your teeth. The cuffs, I imagine, you can break easily. But if you're restrained, we can't have you kicking the sink off the wall. So... some of the reasons were practical. One thing leads to another. Do you have an objection to lying on a hardwood floor?"

"No, Ma'am. We slept like that in the summer," Steve said. "Me and Bucky."

Her demeanor instantly changed. She reached out and touched his wrist. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said softly.

"Thank you. Kate." Steve felt her pat his wrist.

She had gun calluses.

"I have to be cagey," she said, as though following his thoughts. "That's not a great combination with ... taking the advantage. But we will negotiate particulars, and I'll try to be as honest as I can be with you."

"Ma'am. Thank you."

Steve was staring at the equipment in the middle of the table. Next to the food that he wasn't even paying attention to.

"I'll try, too," he added.

She said, "So if I chain you to the plumbing, and bring a date to my apartment, you would tell me of a problem instead of filling in a work order for a damaged bathroom?"

Steve couldn't look at her. "Yes, Ma'am," he said hoarsely.

She let him.

"You know where this is going, Steven," she murmured. "Tomorrow night I'm going to ask you to be naked in front of me, and that's where it starts. You can't get stuck on sparing me the truth, or concealing something to protect someone else. I promise not to spill your secrets to anyone."

Slowly, Steve was raising his head.

"I wouldn't do that to a friend," she said.

*

In hindsight, Sharon should have wondered why the rest of team hadn't raised any objections. It was crystal clear they weren't having a cup of coffee in her apartment. Maybe the team expected it of her; she burned through half a morning indulging herself in that spiteful line of thought, before discarding it as pointlessly distracting. On the one hand, it was against protocol. On the other hand, SHIELD tended to look the other way when it came to protocol.

(It would be a long time, and a lot of wreckage, before Sharon realized that wasn't only a product of Nick Fury's SHIELD.)

And Rogers was ... looser. Maybe not happier — though in fairness, everyone Sharon knew from that generation had a grim air to them. Rogers came to work more rested than restless, more likely to attempt social overtures with people outside the corral Nick had placed him into. Sharon felt better too. She didn't have to go down to the range as often, and in fact made herself schedule more range time in case her firearms scores started to dip.

It took quite a lot of testing before they got the equipment just right. Sharon looked up and it was weeks later, and Steve Rogers was naked on her floor, covered in his own come, bound wrists over his head and feet scrambling for purchase as a vibrator buzzed inside him.

She finished one eval, and moved on to the next.

Steve's dick was certainly tempting. Who wouldn't be tempted? There was the novelty factor, naturally. And it was uncut, which surprised Sharon the first time he exposed himself. Steve explained that his mother hadn't thought he'd survive the procedure, and took it upon herself to keep him cleaned up until he was old enough to do it himself.

Sharon could certainly take what she wanted. They were both adults, both capable of a little meaningless fun. Steve wouldn't object. But that was part of the problem: everyone asked of Steve, and he rarely had the heart to refuse. 

Maybe she was lying to herself. After all, she _was_ getting what she wanted. But she hadn't gotten this far by ignoring her instincts, and they were telling her that it was the difference between leisure and recreation.

She reached over with her tablet stylus and tapped his stiff cock just below the head.

Steve made a delicious sound behind the gag.

"I'm going to work up to slapping you right here," she told him. "Would you like that, Steven?"

He almost went cross-eyed trying to grasp what she was saying. She tapped him again.

With an effort, he nodded. A strand of hair flopped on his temple. She smoothed it away, watching his lashes flutter.

"It'll be a process, okay? I mean, I could have you crawl to my bedroom and spank your ass. Call it a night. The trouble is, you'd tense up if we did that. You have to undo things before knotting them up again." She watched him nod. She scratched under his chin, where he couldn't reach because of the cuffs. "What I'll ask you is for you to _be still_. Come all you want," she added, watching sweat sprout from his brow, "You like getting milked like this, and I like it too.

"You're going to hold still, Steven, knowing you're only there to be watched. Which is what everybody does to you, isn't that right? The difference is I'm going to ignore you. I'm going to go on with my daily chores like you're a pricey piece of art I got for my apartment."

His eyes were wide, and blue.

"When I slap you, you'll be panting for attention. Any kind of attention. And if all goes well, it'll be the reverse of what you do in public. The rest of the world stares at your name and skates right past you. The ones who are really looking at you are the ones looking through scopes." She'd said too much; it could be explained away with a rotation as a trauma center nurse, but the excuse might not be necessary. Everybody knew Steve Rogers — that was the punchline. "When you feel this pain, you'll know down to your bones that it's not someone trying to harm you."

With that, she gripped his cock until he writhed, hips juddering towards her, towards contact. "On anyone else, this might not work. Conflating pain and attention. I should know better than that," she said, humming. "It's inadvisable to explain that much, too, because it gives you the opportunity to flinch away. But here's what I think. For what it's worth. I think you're going to figure it out anyway. I think you know how this works. And I think your... relationship to pain, and to attention, are different from ordinary people's.

"It's still tricky, though," she said, pulling at the sensitized flesh, hot in her grasp, droplets gathering at the tip. "Steven, you must communicate if it's too much. Steven, you must communicate if the pain becomes negative. Steven, you must communicate if the attention, or lack of it, becomes negative."

With each sentence, he squealed through the gag. Yes Ma'am. Yes Ma'am. Yes Ma'am.

His cuffed wrists were still flat on the floor, as though plastered in place. The rest of him twisted and thrust towards her, like a sunflower blindly seeking the sun.

"I'll ask you again when you're dressed and presentable," Sharon let herself smile. "But this is a lot more fun."

Steve came all over her fist.

*

'I'd like it if you touched me more, Ma'am,' Steve had said.

'Good,' she'd said.

He'd taken longer breaks between visits to his neighbor, as he called it. Sometimes he was in the mood to read a book, or go for a ride. He'd found a spa place with a fancy steam room, nice enough that he didn't feel like he was throwing money away. And nice enough that he could forget going to bathhouses and swimming pools with Bucky. Mostly.

He needed a little space to think about reframing his pain.

When he called on her, she was always there. He was starting to find that peculiar. Sometimes they'd eat and watch a little television before she asked him to prepare himself.

She did touch him, as requested. Comforting touches were the most frequent. Carding through his hair, before digging her nails into his scalp. Rubbing his back like he was a pet dog.

He could tell that groping his genitals was her favorite. She was... rationing, he felt, even as he moaned and stiffened and undulated on her polished floor. It made him feel helpless. At her mercy. That she _was_ showing mercy, that she wanted to grab him by the prick and parade him around, and _chose not to_. It excited him.

Now he was lying on the new rubber mattress on the fold-out couch. He'd helped carry it up in broad daylight, Kate saying the whole time that it was bedbug-resistant. Unusually it could also lie across the width of the couch, which hinted that one or both had been a custom order. In practice, it also distributed Steve's weight without losing its firmness. He was cuffed behind his back. His knees were separated by an hourglass-shaped pillow, allowing his legs to fold nearly to a hogtied position. He couldn't roll around or he'd fall off the bed... or hit his shield, which she'd placed close by for his protection. But not his peace of mind — he knew what it looked like.

He was blindfolded.

He hated it and he loved it. His senses sharpened to a knife's edge. He could track Kate all over her apartment. Even picture the look on her face, the shape of her mouth.

And he couldn't ignore what his body was doing. He couldn't ignore the slow trickle of pre-come on his belly. He couldn't ignore the humiliating noises he was making behind the gag.

He'd gotten through fevers with every joint screaming, feeling like he'd been walloped by a sandbag, and he had never whined like this.

He could come like this. Of course he could. All he had to do was hump the air, and get the pressure and vibration just right, all he had to do was pant after it like she'd predicted.

She drew a half-moon under his nipple, and he jerked. It had come out of nowhere. He _could_ smell her, though she didn't wear perfume — if he concentrated. He couldn't concentrate on anything but his cock.

It was freeing.

It was terrifying.

"Shh, shh," she said.

She put the flat of her palm on his balls and waited for him to come.

She had her hand on him. It was like centering all the pressure on that spot. It was like he was on fire, and then he could hear himself come, feel it, knowing her knuckles and the pads of her fingers were cupping him where he was most tender. Most opened up.

He whited out.

Distantly he heard and smelled sanitary wipes. Not for him; for her hands.

Then she left him alone for an hour.

   
   
   
When he felt her again, she was wiping tears that had leaked out of the blindfold.

For no reason that he could discern, that gentle touch made him sob. And then he was crying, humiliated, his stiff penis still bumping around.

She didn't leave his side.

As the weeping subsided, she reached behind him and turned the vibrator up to high.

He parted his legs. To show her.

   
   
   
Other nights were quieter.

She'd placed a vase full of fresh flowers in his sightline. He stared at it from the floor as he got used to a new dildo, a weird corkscrew-like thing that was laughably bright purple.

She had strappy shoes on. She was on her computer, sitting above him, the heels biting into his chest.

Every now and then, she'd aim a kick at the inside of his thighs.

Though she never asked him to — and he never understood why — he always spread wider.

The petals had such delicate colors.

With the flat soles, she put pressure on his ribs; naturally never enough to break anything, just enough to make him catch his breath.

Life felt very simple. He was Kate's doormat.

He thought that might be a nice occupation.


	3. Chapter 3

Sharon was not proud of how quickly it escalated. Nick Fury was on a tear for who-knew what reason, and that meant the upper echelons of SHIELD were on constant alert. That shouldn't have been a factor. At all. She'd attended workshop-slash-meetups on that very subject.

But she was tired as hell, and she knew Steve was too.

So one weekend they settled on a condom type, and started fucking.

Damn, he was a good lay. He was nicely thick, and magnificently sensitive. And besides being sweet as sugar, he managed to act like a gentleman doffing his hat instead of waiting out her breathing exercises while she hovered over him. Much cuter than the boys she usually fucked.

Of course, he went off so fast that the rest of it was a blur of squirming, pleading supersoldier. That was right in her wheelhouse. He knew it, too. She was half-convinced that he bowed his head on her shoulder and intermittently sobbed, perfectly still, just to get to her. She made him come multiple times simply to replace the condom too soon, to watch him try to form vowels behind the gag. His tailbone nearly cracked the floor; she apologized profusely and made him stay for first aid while she dug out her memory-foam horseshoe pillow. 

"Well, you almost broke Captain America," he joked from the tub, "That's not bad for a night's work. Ma'am."

"I'm putting the gloves on, Steven, and I know that's a turn-off," she warned. He promptly shut up and let her fuss over him.

It didn't help her sense of responsibility that they hit so few speed bumps. He was so, so obedient. For a guy with his history — his real history — that was both stunning to behold and not much of a surprise. He hadn't even broken the original cuffs, though she kept a couple of spares in her bedroom bureau. He stayed where he was put, did what he was told, and no matter how shame-faced or how his chin sank to his chest, he'd keep coming like a fountain. Rather uncharitably, Sharon thought he was so good at holding still that he wouldn't even need any ropework. She was quite competent at it, but in practice she detested it — partly impatience, partly unexamined issues over how much of a pompous jerkwad her teacher had been. If she'd had the inclination for human furniture, she could probably train Steve in a matter of months, the only obstacle being that he was just as restless as she was.

And he didn't drop after a scene. The serum just... auto-corrected, and then they'd sit down to eat all the food she'd ordered for aftercare.

She was fucking _spoiled_.

She was more careful with the pain aspect. More missions tended to tangle up the whole pain/pleasure connection for active operatives. She hadn't even opened up her real toybox. It was fortunate that Steve was unduly fascinated by household objects. It was probably the whole idea that anything in the room could be an implement. That he'd never know if she'd planted the object, or was simply improvising. She could make a paper fan out of magazine, to start, then roll it up for a harder impact. The kitchen utensils were starting to look appealing. Once, she knocked the remote control (and its recalcitrant batteries) with the high end of his butt.

When she struck his balls with a flyswatter, he nearly howled through the gag. It was amazing.

One day she was going to borrow a leaf from some of the more unsavory corners of SHIELD, and acquire an old broadcast television antenna. Maybe it'd still have the foil wrapped around it. First she'd have to refresh her understanding of how the rabbit-ears worked exactly, because Steve would want a full explanation before she beat him with it. Not to mention establishing a policy on bloodplay — the serum was tough, but not so much that it'd be impervious to such a whipping.

  
  
  
She was wearing what every single one of her so-called friends called the Xena outfit — she called it her Leather Cheerleader. With due diligence she suggested the show for Steve's to-watch list, but it was beside the point. Not knowing what Xena was, Steve believed her wholeheartedly when she told him its name. He did that with all her stuff: call it by name, every time, like he'd exchanged introductions at a Congressional hearing.

It wasn't the kind of thing one admitted in a SHIELD locker room. Sharon wasn't the kind of woman who gave items cutesy names.

The Leather Cheerleader came with pigtails. The last time she'd gone all-out with the pigtails had been her junior year in college. 

They were on the rubber mattress on the couch, a rare decadence for Steve. Partly because of his dubious look over it holding both of them at full power (it would, she'd tested it), and partly because the muffled sound of squeaky couch springs set them both off. And honestly it was easier on everyone's knees.

She'd skipped the gag, and not the cuffs, so Steve was sitting back on his heels and wearing a worried, almost hunted expression that he'd have to keep quiet on his own. Sharon took a second to appreciate the contrast of his naked state, and her own skimpy get-up. His lowered gaze caught on the wide leather fringes that formed the hemline, and she wondered if she should be worried herself, if his attraction was crossing a line somewhere between a USO dressing room and her thighs.

Then she dragged her boots up to put them on.

They were nowhere near him, but his eyes widened like _shoes on the bed_ were the most transgressive act he'd been party to, this century. The mattress had turned out to be a great idea. Sharon considered the realities of owning one set of sheets with no access to a washing machine, and let him stare for a few seconds before closing her hand on a hank of hair and yanking him, and his wayward gaze, down.

The overbearing SHIELD handbook advised eyelets for shoelaces to avoid some mission-critical gaffe like tripping on one's own feet. In practice she'd taken a page out of the Black Widow's book; half her boots had open hooks for quick changes in the field. They also made it simpler for Steve to take them into his mouth and start lacing her up. 

With great pleasure she watched the expanse of his back turn rosy-red from nape to lower back, below the cuffs. She kept her arm loose and her hold tight, letting him drive, letting him bob his head obscenely, so focused on crossing the laces before they lost tension on the hooks, only to clench his hands and draw a ragged breath every time the humiliating sound of his own sloppy licking broke his concentration.

Then he tied off the knot with his tongue. It was Sharon's turn to blush.

She let up, turning her hand into a loose cone where she'd pinched his scalp. Now whose attraction had to be checked? Prompted, Steve raised his head until she applied pressure again, leaving his chin flush with the bottom of her skirts. His eyes dipped again, and then he blinked, and his face heated up as he realized looking down meant staring at her crotch.

She scooped her thumb, allowing him to look up. She took in his shy regard while she gathered her thoughts. Honestly, she was a little nervous. This scene was weirdly close to a performance — not quite a date, but with an audience who mattered. Leather Cheerleader was supposed to be _fun_. As far removed from their day jobs as possible. It was okay to let her hair down. Or in this case, put her hair up.

It was the Captain America thing, wasn't it. It was hard to avoid at the moment, as the whole thing hinged on faux nostalgia and all the fun she'd never had as a teenager — and her favorite action figure was literally at her feet with a dick out of VHS porn leaking onto his lap.

Then she stroked his hairline, and watched his eyelids droop, and then sweep up again with those ridiculous lashes, and settle on the curve of her sweetheart neckline.

He tried to look away. He did, the poor dear. She gripped him hard, holding him to it. After a few darting, panicked glances, he let himself take his fill. Get a load of me, Sharon thought but didn't say. She knew she wasn't generously endowed, and the attention was gratifying. It was powerful. His gaze wasn't greedy, either — she wasn't sure Steve knew how to be — but appreciative.

This wasn't just about _her_ nostalgia.

She took a deep, centering breath. His neck went slack like he knew what she was thinking.

"Other one," she ordered. "And if you're good, next time you can do up my half-corset. Blindfolded."

He shivered, and dropped like he was doing training camp push-ups, hands-free. In an instant he was laving her boot like shoe leather tasted like dick, and that was an avenue of inquiry for another day. She did have a lot of questions. They did, at some point, merit answers. She flashed back to the usual brassiere styles of the '40s, to the pin-up models, and corsets and garters and stockings. A likely explanation for this attraction. Now wasn't the time to invade the privacy of his old friends. (Or contemplate who they were.)

But it did make the answer to the next question pretty intriguing.

He'd barely lifted his head from the last knot, a line of drool still connecting, when she planted a boot on his shoulder and pushed him flat on his back.

Stretched lengthwise along the couch, he whined, pupils blown out, and as he wriggled to get his feet and arms situated, she leaned on him just enough to leave a faint boot-shaped contusion.

"Are you up for deciding between options, Steven?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, and in doing so he tasted himself, tasted leather, and flushed even more.

She straddled him, skirts brushing his cockhead and making him hiss. "Cowgirl—" and then she turned around, feeling him freeze up between her knees, "—or reverse cowgirl?" She looked over her shoulder, pigtails swishing.

He gulped. Hard.

She didn't make him talk a lot. Rarely made him choose. Now she wanted to know, which would it be? What was the appeal?

Making him talk was too much like work. She was going to make him scream.

"Like this, please, Ma'am," he finally said.

With that, Sharon got to her feet, standing on the bed—all the better to scandalize Steve—and reached over his head for the gag. He was relieved to see it, then faintly terrified as she bent at the waist to secure it on him, dangling her cleavage that much closer to his face.

"You did such a nice job on those knots," she said, and then she turned around and started to shimmy out of her panties, the leather skirt slapping her skin. He groaned like he'd been shot, or probably louder than if he'd been shot — she could feel him making himself watch her, simply because she hadn't rescinded the non-verbal order. More questions popped up... though really, she couldn't picture him as a pervy little boy trying to peek under a dressing room stall.

Delicately she floated her boot over his erect cock, and dropped the panties over his shaft, leghole and waistband pooling around the base like she'd scored a ringer in quoits. The mattress held so steady that she didn't lose her balance when Steve shuddered, head to toes. She bent over again to gag him, and to slide the condom on, and slick him up, and she grinned every time his gaze tried to skitter away from her curves.

There was a moment when his breath snagged as she leaned over the edge of the couchback, likely dying to scrunch his eyes shut when she flashed him. He stopped breathing altogether when she retrieved the full length mirror and propped it between his naked body and the couch.

Testing the fasteners sticking it in place, Sharon watched him in the mirror, keeping her back to him. Her free hand grazed his cock, feeling it firehose-spit into her palm. His whole face creased with emotion. For a second she'd thought it had gone a shade too far.

Then again, his feet were nowhere near the innocuous cat-toy that lived on the armrest exclusively for tap-outs. Instead Steve spread his knees, opening for her, his neck straining as he alternated between staring at the ceiling and looking at her. Tears were already leaking from his eyes.

Slowly she drew her lower legs, boots and all, along the side of his ribs to get him breathing. "Steven? You don't have to keep your eyes open. Or you can watch all you want. You can watch me use your prick like a toy. All you have to do is lie there and take it. Until you can't take it anymore."

There was the near-outraged huff. As though it didn't bear considering that Steve Rogers would give up.

It became clear that Sharon would be watching him, though, and the little punched-out moans were music to her ears as she lowered herself over his hot cock. She watched herself, too: not a rookie anymore, but toned under the fat, and darker between her legs yet still just as wet for it as when she'd gloved up and lubed up for the first time. The pink flush on her skin wasn't makeup. She looked like she was having fun.

Fuck the audio surveillance. They wouldn't pick up much more than garbled noise anyway. "Y-yeah, oh baby that's good," she moaned, bouncing slow yet with force enough for her pigtails to go flying. Behind her, Steve's desperate huffs had turned to mortified squeaks. This sure beat predicament bondage, particularly given the headaches of trying to restrain a supersoldier without a machine shop — Steve did want to watch the show, but to do so he had to catch sight of himself in the mirror, lying prone and straining to fuck her, more at the mercy of his own desperation than her wanton, horny snap-and-roll.

She took him deep, probably more than was wise, she'd be feeling this ache tomorrow. But fuck, what was all that pilates and cross-training for, anyway? She giggled between all the swearing, and didn't feel self-conscious at all.

He orgasmed suddenly, almost mad at himself as warmth squirted into the condom, and after fucking him through it, she rested on his hips, thighs brushing the panties that were more soaked than she'd left them. As suspected, he was sneaking glances at himself, and then shaking away, gaze circling like he couldn't figure out where to look. Too soon, she waggled her butt a little, tightening in waves, just to hear him wail through the gag. He didn't bite those off anymore. He probably wasn't acting, maybe he was that sensitive all the time, and the idea only pushed her to do it again.

When she braced her boot so she could see where his dick disappeared inside her, she worked at him almost absently, her erratic movements shocking little gasps from him. Her reflection looked ridiculous, like a porn star parody. Yet she didn't feel ridiculous. It dawned on her that she hadn't done it in this position in ... too long. Years, probably. Steve wasn't back there judging her, or leering, or otherwise making her skin crawl. It wasn't just because he was subbing.

Her earlier nerves seemed vanishingly distant. This was no performance. There was no embellishing the lurid squelch of her fucking, which made him stiffen under her every time. She couldn't look at it too closely now, but she felt overwhelmingly grateful for Steve, for being so good, for taking a chance every time he took his clothes off.

Steve was weird about inspecific praise, though. She thumbed at his kneecaps, rocked him nice and slow. "In high school, I wasn't on the cheer team," she said without breaking rhythm. "I could've made it, only I, hah, my schedule conflicted with horseback riding. Wasn't much good at it, it was, was all paid up, and I loved that horse. At school, in the halls, sometimes I would see the cheerleaders, and the dance teams, and how much the athletes followed them around. They'd... they'd even show up at the track meets. And I," she ground into him, feeling his body respond, "I had this fantasy of sneaking into the locker room. To wait for the jocks to come out of the shower. To... just once... be the bad girl." She laughed. The vibration, the heady rush of it coaxed her closer to the edge, pinching her just right inside, the slap of skin and moving parts loud over Steve's whimpers, and despite the padding of the mattress, the couch springs were shrieking. "Oh, g-god, Steve-n, this is so perfect, you've been s... spectacular, fuck, ah fuck, a little more, baby, oh...!"

Sharon's head was buzzing when she dismounted. Continued to spin as she got her hands on him and stroked him off again with the soft fabric of her panties. 

On a whim, while he rubbed at the vanishing marks on his wrists, she changed clothes in front of him, shedding Leather Cheerleader in favor of a cotton buttondown and actual hospital drawstring slacks (the ones without the pistol and the two-way radio).

She'd never been that vocal during sex with him. For any of their encounters.

He was probably wondering about her motives as much as she was about his.

It was one of the best orgasms she'd ever had. There hadn't even been any tequila involved.

  
  
  


Later, they ran into each other in the laundry room.

Steve would go down to the basement to use the sturdier ironing board, and to escape the high-tech dryer that probably recorded his biometrics. Sharon was washing the sheets. Usually she rotated through sheet sets until they were all dirty, making for one big load at the end of three weeks, but the scuffmarks from her boot had really bothered him.

He watched her set the machine to cold water.

He shifted his feet.

Sharon couldn't figure it out, until she did. "Coldest setting so the stains don't set," she said. "The rinse cycle is the hottest it'll go, plus steam."

She'd made him a promise about his DNA.

His face cleared. "Oh," he said. There was a long, awkward pause. The laundry room had a fairly new utility sink that provided adequate cover for gunplay, and in SHIELD's opinion the dim, shadowy lighting needed no improvements. They hadn't met outside her rooms for weeks. 

"I use a canvas laundry bag, that goes in too," she added, encouragingly.

Steve shuffled an inch closer. "Could you... teach me? Please?"

Sharon's bright smile wasn't put on. "Of course! Come over, this particular machine has dials but the settings are tiny and finicky."

He was smirking.

She elbowed him.

She'd forgotten herself and put a little too much snap into it, but that didn't even budge him. She shouldn't have been shocked. 

Halfway through the rinse cycle, Sharon would recall later, she'd started to feel annoyed that no one had done this basic orientation for him. If she'd been a real neighbor, and less than helpful, would he have relied on a cleaning service for the rest of his life? Or was he washing his sheets in the sink?

She didn't know.

And, she realized, she wasn't a fake neighbor. She was an actual one.

The raucous spin cycle kicked up. Automatically Sharon flipped a switch through her pocket, which was just as well, because Steve crossed his arms and he craned around like he was checking the door.

"That story you told, before?" he mumbled. "Was that true?"

"Yes," Sharon said without thinking. 

They blinked at each other, taken aback that they'd risk blowing their covers.

The washing machine whined like an old airplane engine.

"I get something out of this too," Sharon admitted quietly. Not enough for a normal person to hear, but with supersoldier hearing...

She wasn't just admitting it to him.

With an effort, Steve unhooked his arms, only to fumble between hanging them at his side and jamming them in his pocket. "I appreciate your candor," he said.

Sharon's brows flew all the way up. "Cap, I know you wouldn't break trust on something like that."

There was the glint in his eyes, like he'd caught on to something. Sharon was holding her breath.

Then his gaze dropped away. "I should... I should return the favor." He blushed deep, and she fought the urge to tease him, couldn't handle the innuendo this time, huh. "I mean, sharing. Sharing more."

And in that space, Sharon realized she was tensing up, because through the racket she thought he'd said her name, and then he did look her in the eye, and said:

"Kate," he said, "it would only be fair."

"No," she said quickly. "No, you don't have to tell me a thing."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I caught part of what rang false with this chapter. Which meant eliminating some sex (!?) It should be shifted to the future. Something tells me you won't notice the lack.

After the... wild ride, the tenor of their affair shifted. Kate became more careful. Despite her assurances, Steve wondered if she was regretting their arrangement. She still welcomed him into her rooms, still had new things to do to him, ways to play with him. It was how she began to hesitate. She asked him if it was okay to call him 'baby.' She asked every time if he wanted the cuffs or not, though he'd made it plain that he loved them. She checked in with him more often, when before she would have left him black and blue without a by-your-leave.

Oh, she didn't let up. The evening she had him take one of the knobbier vibrators and then slapped his cock with a wooden ruler... He'd almost blurted something out to Natasha of all people. It had (as they said nowadays) blown his mind.

There would just be moments— like for instance when they sat down to eat, or when she scrubbed him down in the bathtub. Those had been peppered with small talk, inconsequential tidbits that eventually circled back to the, the 'scene' they'd just finished. Now she seemed to be holding back. It seemed like there was something, or somethings that she wanted to ask him, and she couldn't bring herself to say. Steve occasionally saw it when Captain America fans approached him in public.

What if it was that? What if she was stuck on 'Cap'? (She wouldn't be the first person who'd want to add him to their collection, one way or another.)

Or maybe she was stuck on him.

The only thought he could dredge up in response was that at least it would get Nat off his back about dating.

Except she'd promised she'd say something if her feelings took a turn. Steve was no expert, but she didn't seem any more attracted. She'd mentioned bringing home other partners, hadn't she? He'd almost been eager to find out how that would work. Not anymore, now that there was something strange in the air.

Finally he outright asked her. Well, he asked about her dating. It seemed unforgivably rude; maybe he'd get his thighs paddled for that.

"Oh!" she said. She slurped up her noodles. "I had my eye on some people, yes. But work's been..." she made a face. "It's not that difficult to find an exhibitionist, these days. If you know where to look. That's like half of social media." They shared a laugh. "And that bathroom door would stay locked, don't you worry about that. To keep them out, not keep you in. Obviously. Anyway, not everyone's as easy as you... oh, you know what I mean. It takes more beans than I've got, at the moment."

Steve was aware that she'd deflected from the original question. "Yeah," he said awkwardly. "Work's been hectic."

And there it was. She held his gaze, and then her eyes would slide away. Guilty? Then she glanced up, posture straightening like nothing was amiss. "How about you? You don't have to be exclusive, if you don't want to be. We've been extra careful."

It was sort of nice that she didn't tiptoe around him and ask him if he was comfortable with that arrangement. Of course it stood to reason, given how this had all started. A little too easily. 

Maybe 'easy' was what he was. "I have a friend who's trying to set me up with anyone remotely eligible."

"Discreet, I hope," Kate said, casually. There was a hint of steel underneath, as though she'd show up with guns blazing if someone messed with Steve.

That was a very nice feeling.

"Yeah," Steve said. "She means well. I'll let you know if it pans out." He paused. "If they, you know, want to be exclusive..."

Kate smiled impishly. "You can still stop by and borrow an actual cup of sugar, Mr. Neighbor."

"It'd be my pleasure, Ma'am."

Then, because she was the best, she did paddle his thighs so he'd go to sleep saddle-sore.

  
  
  
Steve was derailed from chasing after that kernel of unease when he came out to her as bisexual. Kate became a flurry of information and support, stocking her bookcases with relevant literature so he didn't have to leave anything at his place. By the deepening lines around her eyes, he thought she might be encroaching on her work to gather all that material. She ordered him not to worry about it. Sure, he could find the same stuff on his own, and keep it from nosy SHIELD coworkers. There was still something soothing about the sheer level of organization from someone who was dedicated to having his back.

In more ways than one.

They renegotiated boundaries.

Their clothes stayed on. They ate a lot of North Indian and Tex-Mex food. The bathtub was relegated to stain-treating some table napkins and a sweatshirt following a chili bowl mishap. Steve managed to check off a few more items off his list.

It probably took so long because Steve avoided talking about the past, and Kate never pushed him on it.

They used modern terms. They arrived at an agreement they could live with.

And then she introduced him to Molly.

This time the bathtub held them both, Steve bent over and getting reamed out by Molly, a strap-on with intimidating curves and an unforgiving girth. Sharon was loud then, too, like she'd stopped caring what the rest of their neighbors thought. Like she might invite them to the show, if she hadn't promised Steve the utmost discretion. Steve thought he'd stopped feeling ashamed of his crying before. This time he cried and cried, hiccuping hard enough to buck her atop him, snot running down the drain in plain sight.

She didn't quite mock him. Not truly. All she did was... compliment him on being a mess, on breaking so beautifully. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he couldn't, he could barely take the body-warmed cock inside him, the way she managed to slam their hips together, the palms of her hands scraping his waist, how it all echoed strangely at the bottom of the tub. She'd left the crest of his ass stinging, before they'd started, and now the impact of her thrusts ached almost as sweetly as balls slapping the same spot. At one point she pressed her cheek to his, and told him to feel how warm she was, how pleased she was, how much she was enjoying him. He came, hard, splattering cum to mingle with the stream of spittle and tears.

She kept on fucking him. She'd shown him the soft nubs on her end of the toy; he lay there sobbing as she worked herself to orgasm after orgasm. He was wrung out. Scraped raw. He lost track of how many times he came. How often pleasure and overstimulation battered him. But he was being... useful, and that was enough to cling to.

Disengaging was a gut-punch in itself. There had been extra lube near the end, and it trickled down as Molly dragged out out of him, rattling another round of sobs from him. She had him sit on an inflatable pool donut as she cleaned him up. It registered vaguely as silly. A little while later, as floaty squeaked under him, it registered as unlike any other time he'd shut the door and cried in a bathroom. It was terribly thoughtful.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he rasped.

She gave him a hug. She was still wearing the strap-on; it bumped up alongside his cock. It didn't matter. She couldn't hide how she was a good friend.

That night Steve was bundled up in a pile of quilts and an electric blanket. She'd even blow-dried his hair so he wouldn't go to bed with a wet head. Kate set the shield next to him, and tucked it in, too. Didn't spare it a blink. Hiding the shield was tactically sound anyhow.

"You okay, baby?"

"Yes, thank you."

She left a stack of handkerchiefs on the armrest. Of course she'd find used tissues a nuisance, too. "I'll set your alarm to ten minutes before your run."

"Thank you. Ma'am."

He went to sleep smelling lavender.

*

By winter, they reached a new equilibrium. Sometimes Steve showed up at her apartment when she wasn't there and did nothing remotely sexual. Mostly he'd be reading up on the current gay scene. When he was feeling particularly bold, watching porn on her online accounts. Sometimes Steve sneaked into the guest bathroom to experiment with his body — safely, Sharon insisted. Mostly with toys, and trialing new erogenous zones. (He'd discovered fleshlights and she was half-afraid they'd take Captain America out of commission more effectively than a missile strike.)

Their encounters together were similarly portioned out, the sexual component less of an urgency. Steve liked to be useful, like an object without the objectification. That was easily resolved with him doing most everything naked. Couldn't wear that on a uniform. He was barred from the kitchen entirely, but otherwise he would happily dust her apartment or sort her recycling in the nude. It strained her undercover team, though really, they were supposed to be on top of their game in the first place. Once she came home to find him taking apart her keyboard to clean it. Naked. If SHIELD had left any bugs in there, that would be on their own damn year-end review.

Simple was better. They'd ruled out predicament bondage entirely (apparently Red Skull had _schemed_ ), but otherwise her guess at human furniture hadn't been far off target. He made for a great footstool. His limbs could take a lot of weight. He liked to sprawl his torso on the table so she could use him as a body pillow when she checked her e-mail and browsed the internet.

She did still leave him alone. Just not as disconnected and isolated as before. That was a good sign, wasn't it? Sometimes all it took was an old oven timer, or the slightly more exciting call for delivery that had him panting away, hidden, mere feet away while she answered the door.

His harsher edges did seem to be blunted. He seemed to be better now that he had space to grieve — and didn't that burn her up inside, that no one had looked after him before this.

Except she still didn't ask him if his situation had actually improved. She couldn't. Not without revealing how much she knew. And how she knew it.

These weren't the kinds of tidbits she could claim she'd picked up from the new Smithsonian exhibit.

As for the intercourse... the moratorium on their respective dating lives had set them up for more fucking. They were both well aware that they were dragging their feet. SHIELD was embroiled in political bullshit, which ratcheted up the workload for everyone. Not that she could commiserate with Steve.

At least Steve had valid reasons for not checking out the scene. He already wasn't great at picking up signals from other men, who from his point-of-view had somehow collectively mutated into rude, standoffish weirdos. Few arguments there. And he admitted that he was working on getting used to bars again, after a traumatizing event in the war. (Which Sharon guessed she knew all about.) That made the list of gay-friendly bars and clubs pretty unhelpful. Cruising was already complicated when you were Captain America and you lived in a city full of cameras.

On the whole, she wasn't sure he was ready to put himself out there.

She couldn't ask him about that, either.

On the flip side, she got more comfortable setting up scenarios that _she_ liked. Quirks that would've gotten her laughed at, or driven another man right out the door. Oh, there were subs aplenty who could pass as mindless drones... all boring milktoast. Oh shit, no, nope, this century. Weaksauce. Steve was not that. He was up for most everything. So what if she wanted to take off her bra and have a big naked guy rub his hot face along the strap lines? Or watch a game on TV and chat with a friend on the phone and scrub at his balls with a nail buffer while he tried not to keen through the gag? She unclasped these sparkly hairclips and stuck them on his nipples, and he didn't raise an eyebrow, oh no, he burst into tears against her bicep and tried to rub one off on the blankets.

Maybe his tacit acceptance had raised her standards improbably high... but she should've known all along that her standards should've been high to begin with. The Captain America effect was real.

And as for the explorations requiring a spotter? Those were generally traded for sexual favors. Extensive ones. That one time he tried to pay her back for the porn accounts? In cash? Hah, she'd nearly arrived late to an escort detail for one of the Secretary's cronies, and spent the whole time trying not to giggle at 'escort detail.' (Steve secretly loved puns. Damn his infectiousness.) He was awfully determined to finger himself properly, whatever that meant in his book, which meant he'd be loose and pliable if she wanted to stuff him with an industrial-strength vibrator to see if she'd feel it on the other side, using his dick. 

  
  
  
It was during one of these favors when she finally slipped up.


	5. Chapter 5

The day had been brimming with political bullshit, so she'd had to wear a skirt to work all the different venues. It was the kind of detail that sucked all the fun out of high heels.

He was waiting in the bathroom when she barged in, bare butt presented to the door, his head pillowed on an entire stack of clean towels — when this had started, he would never have indulged himself with that much fresh laundry all at once — trying to make it through another minute with a prostate stimulator.

She extricated the gag from him.

"Afternoon, Ma'am." He shivered when she checked his pulse. "Evening," he corrected.

She slowly got him turned around, tumbling half the towels to support his knees. The remaining stack was pushed into his arms. He stared at them numbly; okay, maybe he wasn't as okay with wasting towels. She rolled up a couple of handtowels and tucked them under his chin. Had him embrace the bundle.

Then she pressed his face to her legs like an old postage stamp. He whimpered.

"That's it," she said. Code for 'do what you want,' without the pressure of making a decision.

Like he was wading through syrup, he nuzzled at her legs, his face growing hotter and hotter by the second. He actually forgot the stimulator for a second, that jolt of sensation making him 'oof' against her skin, a spasm of bone-snapping force absorbed by the towels.

Sharon's workday was sloughing away in her mind. She was thinking of finding him a squeeze ball that he couldn't break. Of how unnerved he was by voyeurism, and his reluctant, yet steady forays into exhibitionism. Of how quickly he succumbed to humiliation, or rather how quickly he let himself fall in her presence. Of when, if ever, they'd cross that bridge into oral sex, whether it was too intimate a desire or she was just kidding herself. Of the curve of his ass with the vivid colors of the toy just peeking out.

Steve was breathing hard into the space between her legs, her skirt bunched up on his crown like a lewd veil. Then he shifted...

...and bumped into her thigh holster.

Both of them froze.

Rapidly Sharon ran through the scenarios. If she'd forgotten anything else on her person. The bathroom had been thoroughly soundproofed, but getting busted for protocol violations wasn't her foremost thought.

She drew herself up. Placed her hand flat on the side of her thigh, where he could see it.

Slid her skirt up like a curtain.

Regrettably, his internal mission analysis sliced through the buoyant agony of his sexual high. What it meant. Whether it was a threat. Whether it was authentic or fake. 

Lots of people carried concealed weapons.

He might even accept that she'd brought it home for a scene.

One more inch, and he'd see it was a standard service firearm for law enforcement.

Sharon came to a decision. "My bad. I should've cleaned up in my bathroom before I walked in."

One hand joined the other on the skirt's hemline, and she curled her fingers. Both where he could see them.

If this were a combat simulation, her next move would be to throw the fabric over his head, bring her knee up at the same time. She had to do the opposite.

Steve Rogers was a weapon. This was disarming.

He stared at his hands still wrapped around the towels. His face tipped up, and then he caught sight of her underwear — simple white boyshorts — and his eyes slanted away, blinking, and his whole upper body flexed as he bit his lower lip bloody and came.

Sharon's jaw nearly dropped. There wasn't much fluid hitting her ankles. He'd come nearly dry, his pupils were blown out yet he'd kept his eyes open, kept tracking her hands, shook his head hard to expel the gathering tears, even as waves of sensation battered at him, one after another.

"Ma'am," he said hoarsely. "May I?"

He could probably smell her arousal.

She licked her lips. "The safety's on."

 _You're always safe with me._ That had to be the priority. No matter what.

Steve could've reached up. He wasn't restrained.

Instead he leaned in, close to the sensitive hollow along her femoral artery, where the holster's main harness attached it to the narrow belt parallel to the skirt's waistband. He fit his whole face there, stubble rough above the line of soft towels, and began to lick at its buckle.

Sharon resisted grabbing for the sink. Too sudden a move. She brought her hands together, slow, wringing the skirt into a ball so she could watch this... this twisted sight.

Aunt Peggy had probably primed him to have a thing for guns.

She couldn't lose it like this, in the mirror her blush was darkening under her makeup, her heart was pounding. She had to keep it together, he was being so good. This was so wrong.

It was excruciating. The buckle wasn't designed to come off easily. Steve kept flicking out little exploratory licks, trying to get an angle, and on her skin it tickled and crackled at the same time, her internal muscles were clenching like she was the one with the toy inserted.

He kept losing his hold on it. It would go slack, with him nipping after it. He'd simply start all over. His patience wasn't tried at all.

"Baby, breathe," she reminded.

She struggled to take her own advice.

She felt his smartass grin against her skin, and he leaned on her, huffing noisily, exhaling over the tiny hairs below her bikini line, tormenting her until he could steady his breath. She was sure he was still working the stimulator inside him, too. Damn his multitasking. 

It was on the tip of her tongue to tease him back, goad him a little, except that would drag them back in a mire of suspicion.

No. She had to. Especially because the situation was out-of-control. He needed that solid wall of direction. Precarious as this was, failing him was out of the question.

"You must be so sore," she said quietly. She made a show of observing the cooling puddle of semen where he'd been working himself over. She could almost feel his brows draw together, his breath hitch. "You're doing so well. For how fucked out you are." There it was. The buckle slipped out of his teeth again. He was starting to shift, almost unconsciously working himself over despite what had to be maddening sensory overload. "If you can finish here, get that free without dropping it, you can hold Brad while I fuck myself on it—" a shocked gasp, "—and since that's not going to take long, afterwards you can have the menthol rub on your balls."

"Ma'am," Steve said in a broken whisper. 

Sharon waited. Caught her own breath.

Steve gripped his comfort bundle. "Yes, Ma'am."

She released her breath.

He had to stop to come twice more, shaking apart like a closet door in a hurricane, once after he got the buckle free. There was a silly moment when he tried to nudge the strap forward, only to bump into her pubic mound; he was too mortified to get an apology out. By the time he stretched for the outside strap, he was a mess, his dick still half-hard and twitching despite the impossibility of another orgasm.

Steve looked up at her, eyes liquid, the gun in its holster dangling by the main strap from the pinch of his incisors. Though it was doubtful he could follow her motions in this state, she went slow, first tucking her skirt out of the way, then undoing the harness beyond his reach. Keeping it pointed away, she held the holster and weapon on her open palm.

Without prompting, Steve unsnapped the top flap with his mouth.

Despite herself, Sharon raised a brow. With exaggerated care, she ejected the magazine. Placed it on the sink. The gun went back in the holster... and apparently Steve wasn't too out of it to trail it with his eyes.

They stared at it.

Steve licked his lips.

Sharon said, "Neither of us is ready for this." They exchanged a look. It wasn't as though they needed to spell out 'fellating a firearm.'

"Ma'am," said Steve. He didn't look like he knew what his face was doing.

She sighed. There had to be some honesty here. "But I would like to work up to it. Eventually."

"Ma'am." He glanced away for half a second. It was as good as a confession.

Sharon was the one with things to admit. She smoothed her skirt down, for both of their comforts. "I'm sorry I didn't prepare before I looked in on you. There's no excuse. It was my fault."

He looked up at her with an expression so guileless for a nude, musclebound man covered in the leavings of his fucked-out haze. "I'm okay, Ma'am."

Mentally she readied herself to take what was left of him and make him writhe for at least the interim between ordering and the delivery of their usual dinner. Until he was too raw for coherent conversation. For all her internal panic, it was still better than dealing with smarmy political lackeys.

"Hungry?"

"No, Ma'am."

"There's water by the bed. Take your towels with you. I'll clean up here, and join you."

And maybe Steve wouldn't ask about the gun.

*

Steve resolved not to ask about the gun. He'd been fairly out of it, and he'd still caught the startled consternation on Kate's face. She'd seemed like she had a hard day at work. She had rushed right in, after all. He felt briefly guilty that their... arrangement meant she had to be perfect with him all the time. All right, that wasn't how it really worked. She'd provided the information herself on the basics of their activities. The point was she didn't have to be so hard on herself. Everybody made mistakes.

Heck, he'd been distracted too. He should've locked the bathroom door. That morning had consisted of a long, useless debrief following a useless mission. At least, useless to anyone not named Nick Fury. Steve was starting to feel the daily wear of being used as a bludgeon for Fury's agenda.

It was a good thing he had somewhere to go to work out those kinks.

Steve was incredibly grateful for Kate. She'd let him invade her space, take up her time... she said she got something out of it, but from Steve's vantage it never seemed like enough. She spoiled him in ways he couldn't even articulate. How did you thank someone for gripping your cock and pulling just right to jolt your whole body with a pain washed with pleasure? This century had yet to invent a casserole for that. A greeting card would've been too risky, given the widespread samples of his handwriting. A gift basket? They all seemed to come with sausage, which she'd probably end up feeding to him. He'd have gone into a fancy wine place for a bottle, if he'd ever seen her drink alcohol.

And on top of it all, they had grown into a warm camaraderie. She was still severe with him, curt and exacting, but it was laced with a light familiarity. If they hadn't had that friendship, that shared secret, then the sex would've felt more and more like a crutch. Steve would've started to resent it. 

He did have to get out there, it was true. He had to figure out how to make himself at home. Here. Now. Maybe even claim his identity as Steve Rogers, the guy they popped out of the supersoldier tank, in ways he hadn't gotten a chance to before. Being friends with Kate helped with that. It wasn't just an entry in his calendar. There was the fact that he could make friends with someone normal.

When he'd first woken up in the future, he'd been afraid that the friendships that had survived the span of time would not be rekindled. Now he hoped that his new friendships — yes, even his work-wife Natasha, who could be a pain in the neck — would last beyond the situational pressures. An addition to his new life, instead of one more thing to leave behind. That he and Kate would continue on, laughing over fortune cookies and talking candidly about matters like sexual identity... maybe even trading a back-rub or two... long after he stopped asking her to hit him.

Over the next few weeks, Kate was jittery. She steered clear of deep conversations. More often than not, all she'd do was slide a dildo into him and have him lie naked on the bed while she worked. The number of times she'd dragged his face to her lap made it obvious she wanted to try oral servicing, but she never got around to ask. The topics of their conversations became more impersonal; she was being more careful. Clearly she wanted space. Steve could grant her that. It wasn't like he was left wanting. She was always pleased to see him, particularly after a hard day at the hospital. And it was still a challenge to get himself loose and ready to be used. 

It wasn't as though she'd failed to warn him that she'd be keeping some things to herself. For her welcome company, for her friendship, it was a small price to pay.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to give thanks to our influential predeccesors. Like shaenie. Who *really* knows what they're doing.  
> That in itself should be sufficient warning.  
> The series is ready for sub'ing!

Kate had a pair of cloth tote bags, and they were both clacking with round, loose objects, like the grocery store had rung up sex toys in bulk. Steve had repositioned the cat-bell on the couchback, as ordered. He almost hadn't shown up, only he hadn't gotten to sleep after Fury's last errand, and Kate was still awake at this late hour. Coffee and vanilla perfumed the air. Then the pop of a cap, and the familiar scent of his usual lube gave him the shivers.

She'd opened it first entirely so the smell would hit him in the darkened apartment. Briskly she stripped him, like she was prepping him for something as innocuous as a sponge bath.

One bag was spilled on the mattress. Anal beads.

Steve's jaw went slack. He stared at her, desperate need already coursing through him. She wouldn't meet his eyes. But she didn't tell him to look away.

Perfunctory, she said, "Don't skimp on the lube. Or else I'll come over here with gloves."

"Yes Ma'am," he managed.

Her hands closed on his wrists — her calluses contrasted with the soft centers of her palms — and she flattened his hands on the back of the couch, springs squeaking, gentle and solicitous like he didn't know how to turn his body around. She did the same with his knees. Then his chest was pressed flush to the couch, level with the bell toy, his cock nearly wedged between the cushions, and though his night-vision was sharp and his coordination unparalleled, she manipulated his hands to close around the bottle of lube and the string of anal beads.

All day his chest had been tight with simmering frustration, and it was tight again, except different, as though the condescension he'd garnered as Captain America, and as stunted Steve Rogers, was precisely what he craved here: stripped naked, treated like he was helpless.

He was breathing through his mouth when she unceremoniously stuffed it with a ball gag.

She withdrew to the counter on the other side of the room. The light in the room changed as she woke her laptop from its screensaver.

Steve spread his knees, hissing as his nipples brushed the weave of the upholstery. He loaded up with an obscene amount of lubricant.

Painstakingly, one by one, he pushed the beads into his body.

He had no idea if he was being watched or not.

He came twice from putting them in. Lube and come coated the inside of his thighs. Every quiver of his abdomen seemed to shift the mass inside him. He was sweating like a top-floor room in a Brooklyn summer's day. He waited. He tried to breath evenly. He wondered if she'd make him leave them in.

"This is why you came here in the first place, isn't it?" Kate's voice was mild, and it carried. It held a note that made him shudder. Precum dribbled out of his slit. "Wanted to play with your ass, Steven?"

With an effort, he nodded.

He listened to her set the computer on standby. Pad over to him in her fuzzy slippers. She was dressed for sleeping, and he flushed, ashamed that he was imposing, ashamed that he was her bedtime diversion. Behind the couch she stopped to face him. She didn't touch him. 

"To think you couldn't even take a finger," she said.

Steve sniffed. She didn't have to say the word.

"Now you can't help it. You knock on my door so you can feed your greedy asshole."

She sounded so fond. Strangely wistful.

A sob broke free.

She rubbed his lower back as he sniffled. Then just as carefully, she flipped him around, soft hisses escaping him as the beads shifted. He splayed his legs open as she got a cloth ready for wiping. Displaying himself.

She wiped his face first. His eyes watered, and she lingered, the cloth pleasantly warm. And then she dabbed at the lines of drool that had escaped the gag, and Steve bowed his head and blinked tears away. He was clutching at the sheets at his sides, almost yearning for the cuffs and afraid to ask for them. She wrapped the cloth around his shaft and clutched him there, and he parted his legs without her asking, he spread until his feet touched opposite edges of the mattress and every breath knocked the objects inside him into sparks of sensation.

Later he would ponder her lack of escalation. She didn't hurt him, though she could have. She didn't remark on the obvious repetition in his head, _slut slut slut_. Her voice stayed gentle, pleased with him yet uneasy. Gingerly she prodded and padded his body until he was lying back, ass open, his torso supported though he could easily hold the pose himself.

"I can take them out, except I'd be wearing gloves," she said.

He shook his head. At the time, he'd gone along with her gradual pace, trusting, his arousal sinking down from a twitching throb to a mellow hum.

She made as though to replenish the lube — then went past to pick up the second bag. "Think you can kick it up notch? Or would you like to get it over with?"

Steve blinked at her, surprised and a little dismayed at the choice. He had no idea what was in the bag. Was he tired? He could handle it — but should he? Was it better to finsh up, hit the hay, try to sleep one more time? He saw her hesitate again, he could sense her reluctance, then her posture firmed up. He had to answer the question.

He jerked out a nod in the direction of the bag.

Kate thumbed the hair around his temples, one side then the other, almost apologetic. Then she upended the bag.

Surgical tape rolled out. Followed by a dozen mini egg vibrators.

Steve nearly recoiled. Now the slowness had turned the hum of desire into a high-pitched whine. He was rooted to the spot, his jaw threatening to bust the gag — oh God he couldn't do that, she would punish him, that would keep her up even later — nearly spasming where the cool air hit his stretched, stuffed hole, his legs that could hold twice his weight in a lever hang were trembling from being propped up across a fold-out couch.

She waved the tape. "No bad associations?" she asked.

He shook his head, cheeks warming. Of course she'd ask; she was a nurse.

He wanted, badly, he stared at her as though he could convey it with his eyes as she taped the vibrators to his stiff dick, just cleaned up and getting dirty already. The tape didn't feel like anything; all he felt was pressure when she tamped down each small strip. The thin wires were mostly insubstantial, all run under the tape, a nest of electricals installed on him which maddeningly brushed his nerve-endings every time he breathed. She set them up with professional efficiency, as though working from a mental map of his dick. He flushed. Two vibrators were tucked under his balls. The slight pressure brushed against the beads. She didn't hit him, or tug, not even a flick, until he realized the last vibrator was going under his foreskin, and he shook his head wildly, only stopping when she began to stretch the hood around his sensitive head.

Maybe the ounces should've pulled his dick down, except he was so hard, he was nearly dizzy with it. The first load shot too fast. On its heels was a wave of shame that he was getting her fingers dirty, that the shiny toys she'd taken such trouble to procure were already sullied. He felt like a dumb kid who couldn't control himself. He threw his head back and gasped for air, his cock twitching and his ass full like his body parts had mutinied.

His neck lolled. His dick was done up like a mummy. Fresh spunk dribbled over the tape, and did nothing to lessen each strip's hold. A faint hum reached him from across the room: the computer's cooling fan. She still had work left to do. He'd be left alone. He'd be withdrawing the beads himself. That meant no cuffs.

Kate wiped her fingers on his heaving abdominals, and was back to fussing with him, supporting his body even though he was wound too tight to relax. Steve stared at her imploringly, unable to discern if he wanted the restraints or not, while what was left of his conscious mind knew he wasn't getting them. A quick shake of the bell as a reminder that it was there. He sucked in more breaths, and didn't go for the bell.

At this point Steve realized that it couldn't get done fast enough, because she hadn't turned on any of the vibrators. A glance down confirmed it: all the slim battery packs had a blinking light. In front of his nose, Kate held up a matching oval, also blinking. Steve thought it was another dildo at first... and then she took his thumb and had it rub against what he now realized was a dial.

It was a remote control.

"Baby," she said softly. 

Without quite knowing why, he shook his head rapidly, whipping moisture off his face, tears or sweat.

"You can do it," she said, and her tone wasn't kindly. She turned his palm where it had hooked under his thigh, where he was holding himself open, and numbly he watched her tape the remote to his punching hand.

Then she dragged the shield over beside his free hand, and that was it, he was shaking, until she nudged him back against the couch and made him slump into the support. Then she made sure his thumb was on the dial. More loosely she wrapped tape around the base of his thumb to fix it to the remote. The ends of the tape went round his wrist. She was close enough to smell a little of her bodywash, and a whiff of what Steve knew was medical solvent. She was smiling.

He was breathing hard enough to hiss and whistle through the gag. She added a little lube around the cockhead; he whined and tensed. After a moment's thought, she appropriated a wooden candle holder and with it wedged the pump bottle of lube between the cushions.

"I'll have my fun later." She paused, and pulled a moue like she'd taken pity on him. "The control's also a six-way rocker switch. Decompressed is... all six pairs." Casually she took his ankles and dragged them to snag on opposite ends of the mattress. He was too stunned to resist.

Jesus Christ. She left him there, overwhelmed, splayed apart and driven to the edge by the anticipation.

Steve adjusted one more time. His thumb found the dial.

He didn't press the switch.

The dial clicked on.

It was like being electrocuted. Steve writhed, dimly aware that he was yelling through the gag, his legs trying to close and catching on the mattress. He could feel... inside him... and he swiped the dial forward and the vibrators at the base of his balls resonated with the anal beads and he went off like a dropped can of soda pop, his internal muscles clenching and his dick feeling like it had a hundred hands on it. For a second he couldn't put together what he needed to do to _turn it off_ , and he was swearing and thrashing until his brain kicked back in and he dragged the dial off.

He was huffing and puffing.

There was... there was semen on the shield. He hiccuped a sob.

Across the room, Kate's keyboard was softly clacking away.

He dialed it up two notches. He felt like he'd gone twenty rounds on one of those old-fashioned belt exercisers that no one sold anymore outside of late-night tv, he wanted to jerk away or forward or somewhere, and he couldn't. He squeezed out his watering eyes. More prudently he dialed it back to the first setting, and let the couch take his weight. He was perfectly supported; it was a comfort. He remembered he had another hand. Slowly he got it between his legs, and down, and while all twelve vibrators buzzed away, withdrew a single bead.

His whole body was racked with shivers. It felt so much bigger than before. The movement disturbed the rest of the beads inside him.

When he had everything turned off, he looked down and saw the pale bead trailing out of his ass.

Steve let out a hysterical laugh. He lay back and stared at the dark ceiling.

Then he took his hand away, and pressed the rocker switch.

He wasn't even halfway through when Kate checked on him again. He still didn't know what the fifth and sixth switches did. She got closer and Steve was seized by the need to hide. He couldn't work out how to close his legs.

She took one look at his dark, swollen, cum-covered cock and blew a stream of air across it.

He sobbed, which only mortified him more, and he sniffled hard. She wiped his tear tracks with the back of her hand. "I should make you eat me out," she murmured, and Steve nodded vigorously, unthinkingly drooling with eagerness. Then she looked sad again, and shook her head. "Sorry. Stray thought."

Steve blinked at her. 

Her expression smoothed over. She wiped him up, got him through a few swallows of sports drink, added more lube here and there. Then she left him to it.

Steve let the radio-static of his thoughts settle. He wasn't sleepy yet. He hit the fifth position. Turned the dial on.

The arch of his left foot cramped from his toes curling, and it shot up his leg like a charley horse, and he got in one thrashing sob before the serum kicked in. Distantly he registered the kitchen chair scraping as Kate sat back down.

There was drool on his neck. It was drying.

He was down to the last two beads, they were coming out all at once because he couldn't stand it anymore, his legs off the mattress entirely, when he heard her in the kitchen.

"This would make the most amazing livestream," she said, and panic jolted up his spine, that was... that was cameras and _live_ , the glint of his ruined shield caught his eye, and he froze up.

The vibrators kept going, though, and they were hitting his prostate almost directly. The fight didn't so much go out of him as burst out in surges, stampeding out of him even as his poor wrung-out cock twitched and dribbled next to nothing.

"Paid, professional show," Kate said, coming closer.

Steve reeled the beads out even as he clenched with fear. The burn was incredible, it was... exquisite. This was what they warned about when they said this could make you go blind. If not for the serum, Steve felt he would've blacked out.

When Kate got the gag out, Steve was repeating "Oh God, oh God," under his breath. Gently she toweled off his brow. Swiped across his clavicle. He wasn't tracking her at all.

Until she knelt beside him and dumped out the last thing in the bag.

It was a squarish bottle of the solvent he'd smelled earlier. "This will sting a little." She grimaced when he did. "Yeah, the smell. It's diluted enough for genitalia. However..." she gave him an oddly prim look. "We don't have to use it."

Then she ripped the tape off his wrist.

Steve made a sound crossed between an 'Oh!' and a distressed 'Augh!'

The freed remote bounced off the mattress.

He felt stretched in, well, a dozen different directions. He'd forgotten. She was going to have her turn.

His dick wasn't softening. It twitched, and he grunted loudly, before he remembered the lack of the gag.

"Kate," he whimpered, "Katie."

A tiny wince. Firmly she guided him to lie down on his back. His legs felt like rubber. His ass was... Riding the bike to the Triskelion might be a problem tomorrow. His mind raced.

The tape had to come off everywhere.

His eyes rolled closed. "No help," he said.

"There's always help," Kate chided, setting the solvent aside. "Gag?"

"Yes, please, Ma'am."

She replaced the gag.

His thighs fell open like there wasn't a choice.

The tips of her fingernails felt like knives dipped in honey, and then she took hold of the tacky surgical tape and yanked like she was flaying the skin off.

Steve screamed.

  
  
  
She was tucking him into her bed. She said she still had work to do, which Steve vaguely wanted to dispute, but he was too wiped to muster more than a grumble. She was brushing her teeth, ideal time to argue with her, just as good as when she was slurping noodles.

She stood over him for a minute, brushing away. Then she spit in her cup, disgusting, and Steve was about to gather the energy to say so when she said: 

"You know I wouldn't really use you like that."

His lips parted a little.

He... nodded.

She looked weirdly relieved. "Just for show, Steven. What a nice show, too," she added, smiling a little fondly. She pressed on his upper arm, and he was ready to, to do anything— get her off with the heel of his hand, or suck her toothbrush dry.

He fell asleep in the midst of slurring, "A pleasure, Ma'am."

  
  
  
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't daydreamed of Kate brandishing a gun.

Except Nick was dying, and she was inside his secure apartment, mirroring the exact drills Natasha had taken him through during his SHIELD quals, and...

_"On whose orders?"_

_"His!"_

Not once had he gone through the closet in _her_ master bedroom. It hadn't seemed right.

That didn't matter. They had jobs to do.

  
  
  
In the next eight hours, everything would go to hell in a handbasket.

The worst part of _these_ eight hours was steeling himself for a confrontation with Secretary Pierce, a bad feeling already itching under his skin, when Kate walked out of the man's office. 

_"Captain."_

_"Neighbor."_

She looked so off-kilter in different clothes. The sharp severity that he only knew from her voice and the flats of her hands now arrayed her in head-to-toe tailoring. He couldn't know what level of that was real. 

The hell of it was how her gaze remained steadily on him. Neither of them broke stride.

He missed her already.


	7. Chapter 7

Sharon had no trouble getting through the security lockdown at the hospital. It kicked all her instincts up to high alert, until she caught sight of Romanoff. Then tension switched to something completely different, and profoundly unprofessional: how much Romanoff knew, beyond the files she'd dumped into the web. 

She swung back to high alert when Natasha didn't make her. What the hell. Sharon nearly halted in the middle of the hallway, flabbergasted. She had to quit hesitating.

Maybe Natasha was off her game. Maybe Sharon still had it. She was fairly sure she'd slipped right past the Black Widow into Captain America's private room.

Steve.

Of course, there was Steve's new friend sitting vigil at his bedside. Fortunately she was spared having to get past him. Her roiling emotions at seeing Steve's body so battered were... bad enough.

He toasted her with a coffee cup. "You must be The Neighbor Friend." The moniker gave her an unexpected lift. A silly little sunbeam of hope amidst the shitshow. Probably Wilson (she was done with assumptions) nudged Steve out of his doze, then got out of his chair with a sassy little eyebrow wiggle. "Sam Wilson. I heard so little about you."

Correction. Sharon was no match for Sam Wilson. She did reply with a coy tilt of her brow, at which Sam grinned.

"Leaving so soon?" she said, pushing her luck.

Sam shrugged. "You're on the list. Ah, not that list, though considering..." He gathered up his jacket, nodding at a small flip notepad on the bedside. The top page had a hilarious caricature of Tony Stark.

She'd made the Lookbook of Allies. That was good, right? On an impulse, she snapped out her Swiss Army gizmo, drawing Sam to it with a wave. She tapped her ear significantly. "Thank you for looking out for him."

"All I did was watch his ass," said Sam, ambiguously deadpan. 

Sharon took note of his injuries. "I'm sorry," she said. She deliberately turned her face from Steve. "For not shooting Rumlow faster." There were holes in the after-action, and Wilson had been the only combatant left to fill them.

This time Sam flashed her a real smile. Well, no wonder Steve liked him. "Hey, no problem, I had him in my sights too. Sooner or later..."

"You bet," Sharon promised. Sam took his music player out of the cradle; Sharon replaced it with the gizmo.

As the door shut, she turned to Steve, who had been watching the whole byplay with a crooked smile on his face.

Crooked because a metal arm had messed up his face.

"So," Sharon began. "We fucked up."

Steve sank into his pillow. He was still fuzzy, and in pain, the bad kind. It was still nice... _great_ to see his friends getting along. He'd had a heap of the alternative, of late.

"I think you got an extra word in there," he said.

Despite herself, Sharon laughed.

Steve really wanted to laugh, but for the pain. He could imagine she was here to dare him into hurting himself. It was almost like they were doing a scene.

Maybe they hadn't ever stopped.

Sharon bit her lip. "I wanted to tell you in person: no one else knows. I mean," she amended, "There had to be rumors that we were shacking up. Nothing specific got out, certainly nothing, inflammatory, I swear to you."

"How can you be sure?" Steve fought the urge to squirm. "Nat said some files were under heavy encryption, or buried in the flood."

"Cut it off at the source," she said, indicating the slowly flashing gizmo, "And there's nothing to record."

Steve's lips parted. He looked between her and the jammer. "You really did soundproof the place."

"You were on that mission in the Andes."

"I thought I smelled new drywall."

"Don't forget the wallpaper." Sharon cautiously approached. "There's no corroborating those rumors. No physical evidence, either. I'm disposing of the toys—"

Steve tried to sit up. "You're tossing them? All of them?" To his own ears he sounded plaintive. Needy. So much of what he'd accumulated in either century had been dismantled before his eyes...

Sharon nearly pressed him back down on the bed. That move would've alerted the guards for certain. "They went unattended for a week in a building designated a crime scene. With a whole lot of Metro under investigation for ties to Hydra. Anything could've happened. Chemicals, nanites. Magic." She wrinkled her nose. "Better to start off fresh. It's just stuff," she said more gently. She looked like she wanted to touch his hair. Rub the one undamaged spot along his browline. Steve wished she would. 

Instead she produced a piece of paper, and tucked it in his notebook. "A list of my suppliers, and the corresponding products. Your favorites are highlighted."

"Thank you," said Steve, throat working. Not only for organizing one more bit of logistics. For reminding him — they were just things.

"Drop them in an expense report if you want to scandalize people," she murmured, falling back on dry teasing. "Rewrite some truths about Captain America."

Steve thought about secrets, and lies. And trust.

"Truth can be complicated," he said.

She sobered. "I should never have taken you on while I was misrepresenting the extent of what I knew." God. It was like every stress dream she'd had in middle school, before the move. Reporting the latest FUBAR to Captain America.

So it hadn't been...? With time to consider, he'd been steeling himself for it all to be on orders, though he hadn't fully bought into that theory. Steve had mostly been outraged at the idea that someone as skilled as she was would ever be assigned to a honeypot mission. 

He was getting sick of the word 'mission'.

"Not: who you are?"

"That is who I am," said Sharon. "Though I'm not a nurse. That part was..." she looked away, pursing her lips. "That was shitty of us, Hydra or not. It was blatant manipulation."

What part? Oh. Because his mother had been a nurse. Steve shut his eyes; it hurt to roll them. "As long as it was _blatant_." 

She wasn't trying to be smooth now; trouble marred her features. Her position by his prone form was too much like... before. She glanced to the side, and saw that propped beside the bed was the shield. 

How many times had she handled it? Faking nonchalance, treating it like a mere household item. "I should've known, Steve. I knew SHIELD played fast and loose with the rules, but my actions should've gotten me a reprimand. Or a dismissal."

"You weren't the only one involved," Steve huffed. Oddly he felt himself sinking back into the pillows. 

The entire unfolding catastrophe came rushing back in vivid detail.

"And _none_ of what we did got flagged. That was suspicious as hell! It was my job to pay attention. I dropped the ball. I'm sorry." She was speaking faster, which wasn't like her. She wasn't used to screwing up like this. To apologizing, or having this much to apologize for. Different setting, and she was still uneasy, hesitant.

The bad guys hadn't hesitated at all.

Steve was silent. 

"We did fuck up. We were compromised. I knew that. I got complacent." She found herself backing out of the room. She sighed. "I should go. The note's got a book cipher with my number. I understand it'll be... a while before you can trust me enough to make contact. Call, and I'll be there." She turned on her heel.

She was turning to retrieve the jammer when Steve spoke.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes?" she said. She inclined towards him.

"It's been a while," said Steve Rogers.

Sharon Carter turned on her heels, snapping the device back in the cradle.

"Ha." This time Sharon walked right up to the bed. "That easy?"

Steve gazed up at her. "I know a friend when I see one. That's not complicated. You said you'd keep me safe. You did your best."

For the first time in a long time, true relief flooded through Sharon. Steve could see it plainly. It was like she was a different person. Someone he knew. Or could get to know. 

"Well, I can't hug you, because you have massive chest trauma," said Sharon thoughtfully. "May I give you a kiss?"

Steve brightened, his hair perking adorably. "My pleasure, Ma'am."

Sharon leaned over and, mindful of the fractures, captured his lips.

Steve meeped.

She snorted, then grazed his swollen lip with her teeth.

His breath hitched. "Ow," complained Steve. "Not fair. I'm in traction."

Sharon straightened, and did him the courtesy of not glancing down his hospital gown. "Hey, natural endorphins are great for recovery."

Steve smirked. "You read that in your medical periodical?"

"Hush, you."

They regarded each other for a few moments in comfortable silence.

This was... okay.

Natasha would say that he wouldn't be the first guy to be played by a steady diet of physical intimacy. It wasn't just that, though. It was all the other little things they'd done that would've been superfluous with Steve already stripped bare and vulnerable.

"Ice chips?" Sharon had spotted the telescoping water cup, lid closed, that was standard issue for a survival kit. He flickered an eyelid, and she cupped a hand under his chin, and fed him by the mouthful. She didn't make more of it, remaining briskly professional. Steve glanced at her through his lashes. 

It was in the little ways she showed how she cared. 

Maybe this time, if she let him, he could be a better friend. He cleared his throat. "Where are you headed from here?"

She shrugged. "Another alphabet agency. CIA, probably. I can't let this happen again, not on my watch." They shared a matching gaze. "I'll go where the dirt is. There's a ton left to clean up."

Suddenly Steve was reminded of all that government red tape. The background checks that had taken him aback the first time he'd heard of them— go figure. She'd just purchased a whole new set of sex toys, and then there were the rumors. With someone as visible as he was. Forgetting the jammer, he tried to convey his concern. "And they won't...? This wouldn't...?"

"My proclivities are already in my file," said Sharon wryly. Her smile faded. "You could look me up."

"No," said Steve firmly.

"Why not? I looked up Wilson."

" _Sam?_ Why?"

"He's clean as a whistle. You have good taste in people." 

Steve had to admit that was a settling thought, unfounded as the suspicion was. Even then. "Come on, he fought alongside us."

Sharon crossed her arms. "Let's say I'm gun-shy about assuming my colleagues are on the right side."

Steve sighed. "Did you look me up?"

"You have impeccable references," said Sharon. "And you're a good guy, Steve. You deserve better than that." With that, she came around the bed and picked up the shield to set it where it would be within arm's reach. "Star out or in?"

"Out," said Steve. He beamed at her.

"Baby," Sharon said softly. "Take care of yourself. I mean it." 

She dotted his brow with a quick kiss. She had to slip out before the next shift change. With luck, she could dodge Natasha a second time.

"I'll do my best," he said. Before she reached the jammer, he whispered, "If you cross paths with the Winter Soldier—"

"I know," said Sharon, with feeling. They exchanged another loaded look. "I'll do what I can to make sure he's retrieved in one piece. If he's found."

"Thank you," said Steve.

She had unhooked the jammer and was halfway out when she stopped. Her finger tapped the flipbook where she'd left her note. "For _anything_ , Steven. Like a cup of sugar." Sharon shot him a wicked smirk.

Steve colored, and ducked his head.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said to the empty room.

*

 

_"Do me a favor? Call that nurse," said Nat._

_"She's not a nurse," Steve said. Too quickly. Oops. Had he said too much?_

_Natasha gave nothing away. Casual as could be, Steve inquired, "What was her name, again?"_

_"Sharon," said Natasha. "She's nice."_

   
   
   


**Author's Note:**

> I started this in 2016, in the mire of technical difficulties... and revisiting it now I realized this is a fix-it for The Kiss. Seriously, I sat in 6 heavily-Straight audiences for it and every single one of them cringed. On a brighter note, I had angst over Sharon never disclosing her name, this time, and Steve being okay with it, until Sineala posted about 616 comics Steve and his period-typical Agent 13 groaners (Sharon in the comics is not treated well at all, peeps), and that settled me immensely, thanks bunches. Apparently I can't stop remixing the cemetery scene in CATWS (cf [_Proschai (Goodbye, Goodbye)_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171272) & maybe [_Stiofán Dubh_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8302852/chapters/19014151)). Or getting Steve to do laundry. I could've hewn it much closer to canon—like verbatim—but honestly? The sex distracted me. That hospital scene was supposed to be a note in the mail, sheesh. Sorry about all that plot.
> 
> ...so much that it wouldn't fit just one. You'll note that this did not arrive at the it part of fix-it, yet. I'm gonna go slow on generating the second part. Some of the obvious gaps where ~~dirty smut~~ something was foreshadowed ought to be satisfied then. I figure this is enough sex to tide everyone over? 
> 
> You ... didn' t read this for the plot, didja? ;)


End file.
